Operation FUBAR
by GenTech4
Summary: Hundreds of gamers from around the world have been abducted from their reality and flung into their respective game worlds by forces unknown. Trying desperately to endure the uncompromising hostile forces of these new worlds and their own fragmenting minds, these lost souls endeavour to unite with others of their kind, and find those responsible for this disastrous incident.
1. The Lost and Confused

It is a warm day in August (I think), the grassy rear end of the Métro station is bathed in the Paris sunshine as birds sing from the trees, a cool breeze rustles through their leaves, and the river is still save for the flowing wake of the wind. I spend a scant few seconds admiring the view, before a JDAM from up above penetrates the ground below and I am blasted two hundred feet into the air, only to land on some jagged rock thirty metres away from ground zero. The pain is immense. My body should have been broken and massively disfigured from the attack - it is not. Instead I lie here, grateful for what little calm I can get, even if the blinding, all-consuming pain is unrelenting in its assault before my inevitable death.

I should really be used to the pain by now, it's been at least three months spent in this hell, this...limbo where I can never know peace, nor quiet, only endless exertion and pain.

Perhaps I should explain.

Three months ago I was happily playing Battlefield 3 on my games console, enjoying the challenge of fighting an opposing twelve person team with my friends on the Playstation Network (I had a lot of free time - student, no job, no hobbies beyond gaming) and generally just having fun. While playing Operation Métro during a particularly rainy day toward the end of May, all twenty-four players in the match at the time experienced what we've started calling a transcendent glitch – a blinding bright blue light, a deafening rumble and rushing sound in my ears, a feeling of freedom, and then, nothing. For what must have been hours, there was no sound, no sight, no pain, no pleasure, no taste, you get the idea.

Suddenly, everything.

I was thrust into the heat of combat. Tracers from automatic weapons flitted back and forth between in two directions - toward and away from me - blinding me in the darkness of the tunnel I found myself in; explosions ripped through bodies beside me, as I heard screaming and felt shock waves ripple through me; a cacophony of sound and a lightning storm of bright images contrasted in the shadowy darkness of wherever the hell I was. I became briefly aware of something bright heading toward me at breakneck speed, and before I could conceive of what this ominous projectile could be, pain, and then the relative comfort of the void yet again...

After a few more spontaneous bouts of existence swiftly ended by shattering pain and death, I found myself popped into being behind what appeared to be a Recon class cowering behind a barricade of sandbags toward the rear. I asked him what he knew of this place, yet all I could wrangle out of him were vague sentence fragments (fuck you, Microsoft Word) that unambiguously presented our situation as hopeless. We could not retreat through the dead zone for the immediate death associated with being there for too long, nor could we advance through the horrific kill zone that was the tunnel.

I attempted to get my bearings again without the orchestra of death assaulting my ears and numbing my mind.

It was Operation Métro.

That damnable map. FUBAR is what this is.

There were soldiers all around me, far more than the twelve man sides we were used to on console. I took a quick headcount, and even allowing for my dismal skill in mathematics and tendency to get distracted, there had to be at least fifty people here, just at the American base! I didn't even take into account those allies fighting in the tunnel, let alone the enemy team.

The enemy team.

Were they our enemies? Did we have to kill them all to win? Can they die? If we win, do we get to leave?

I felt sick, I felt nauseous, I felt tired, and I felt confused. Those of us holed up at the base were in varying mental states: some trying desperately to off themselves, some laughing hopelessly, others were throwing up, or curled up in the foetal position bawling their eyes out and pissing themselves. What the hell was going on?

Despite confusion reigning supreme amongst this rag-tag soldiery, a select few had attained some form of composure, and were heading into the tunnel to beat back the ever encroaching onslaught of enemy soldiers on our base. I contemplated whether to help them, but settled on a course of action that addressed a longer term problem: rehabilitation. Though the scattered thoughts of the Recon were being vomited out through his mouth, I attempted to get through to him. I dragged him away from cover toward the river, and threw him in. He was not happy. After climbing out of the river, soaking wet and severely brassed off, the bastard Recon punched me in the face and verbally assaulted me with a veritable stream of expletives and an accent that was undeniably American.

Reeling from the shock and pain of such an unexpected attack, I considered retaliating but immediately restrained myself from doing so. I had attained my objective, and explained the overall situation to the Recon, whose rage quickly subsided and was replaced by an odd mix of emotions from fear to joy. We resolved to do the same for our comrades - most of whom reacted in a similar manner. Nonetheless, after a short period of time we had regained the composure of approximately two-thirds the motley contingent of keyboard warriors whom had been thrust into this...fucking place.

While the remaining individuals of "Bad Company" were being drenched and briefed, the rest of us had unanimously decided to get organised. Lacking any real knowledge of a command structure we divided into squads of five, with each squad having a squad-leader and a mix of various classes. The Recon I met had opted to become overall commander, and no one else bothered to challenge him on this. Only later did we find that he had no real knowledge of tactics or strategy, and was making it up as he went along. At least once, he attempted to pull off a pincer movement at Bravo, only for those involved to swiftly realise his idea of a "Pincer Movement" was our idea of a "Human Wave" all-out assault. Needless to say, the attempt ended as badly as everything else did.

So began a day long slog through an endless tsunami of blood, sweat and tears - smoke blocking our vision, blood spraying our skin and gear, trauma and pain warping our comparatively fragile minds into bruised and shattered remnants of our former selves. We existed to fight. There was no order to what we were doing, no command, Commander Recon alternated between blind attempts at control of the chaos, and hours spent crying in the corner, shielding his face with his hands. The others weren't much better - it got to the point where it was necessary to set up an asylum of sorts at our base for those poor souls who had their sanity stripped from them, and could no longer tolerate the endless blur of death and pain. I would blink into existence, run for a few minutes, and get slaughtered horribly when I found the crossfire. In the first day alone, I was stabbed, shot, exploded, fragged, concussed, penetrated, punched, kicked, bitten, beaten, set on fire, crushed, and had my shit viciously pushed in.

I wish I could say we got better at war, that our skill in battle improved, that our minds numbed to the horrors we faced. I cannot. For the past three months, this is all I have known. We haven't even been able to communicate with the Russians, as they shoot us on sight - no prisoners are ever taken, and diplomacy is not a word that can be associated with this mess.

So here I find myself, a three month veteran of hundreds of battles, resting broken on the crumbling remnants of our base once more - the enemy breaching our defences and claiming victory over our forces, unable to respond with anything more than a scream of heart-rending sorrow and stubborn defiance, yet even that is lost in the deafening roar of explosions resulting from a near-endless grenade spam. I resolve to spend the rest of this battle sitting on the river's edge, and day-dreaming of the day when I find the creature that sent us here...and what I will do to it when I find it. Such thoughts are all that can sustain my fragile and degrading mind nowadays.

I _will_ escape this place.

I _will_ find you.

I _will_ kill you.


	2. The Lost and Damned

Was this my prior world of ancient Terra, I would think this to be the month of August. I only wish I had been taking better notice of passing days, not that I've had much in the way of free time. This planet has been locked in a state of total war since I arrived here in May, as have I.

The sky is a pallid grey-brown, tinged with maddening hints of red, and enthralled in a sickening violet haze. It is as though the heavens themselves are venting their lifeblood, infected with the stinging, malodorous stench of the Warp. The terrain reflects the sky in both colour and feeling – the eternal traitors have brought their foul corruption with them, and now they seek to consume yet another innocent Imperial world.

I desperately want to go home, to forget that any of this occurred, but ever since that day in May we have been pledged to fight against the forces of Chaos, to annihilate the enemies of the Imperium. We are the lost and damned – people of another reality, transported here and desperately fighting to survive in a hellish world.

"From the lightning, and the tempest, our Emperor deliver us."

Bolter fire from the left flank. Heretics are closing in. Voices in the back of my mind whisper thoughts of treason and betrayal – no, _my_faith is unwavering.

"From the darkness and the chaos, our Emperor deliver us."

Squad Vekhario is incinerated by an Obliterator's plasma discharge, their smoking remains fuelling a growing righteous hatred for the heretical forces we find ourselves facing. At least they will know peace. My brother beside me mutters a quick prayer for those fallen.

"And though the enemies of man think to taint this holy shrine..."

I clutch my Chainsword close, not knowing how to wield it properly in close combat, nor the sacred rights for showing respect to its ancient Machine Spirit, only knowing it is all that stands between me and whatever horrific manner of creatures lie beyond.

"...by the hammer, and the sword, we deliver ourselves!"

That is the signal. Our Chaplain has finished his impromptu attempt at an Imperial prayer, and though it may not have the holy backing of his Imperial majesty, the words have a resounding effect on us.

No longer are we terrified civilians, thrown into an unknown world we had no part in creating. Now we are Adeptus Astartes – products of the most brutal training regimen in the galaxy, genetically enhanced super-soldiers, fanatical defenders of the Imperium. Space Marines. By the colouring and symbols, I surmise our chapter to be the Dark Angels, one of the more noble chapters to be sure. And now our pseudo-faith and blind courage are used to their full effect when I and my brothers burst forth from the stonework of our cover, charging into the enemy lines like a hurricane summoned from the ancient legends of Terra itself.

"FOR TERRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" we scream in unison, hacking away at the foe with daunting vigour. Sporadic shots are heard within the vicious melee, their roar drowned out by the clang of metal on metal, along with the startling war cries of both holy knight and traitorous heathen alike. I feel terror, I feel pain, but I also feel a thrill – the thrill of righteous battle against the enemies of mankind, against those who sought to shatter our dreams and haunt our nightmares.

"Brothers, we fight together!"

Our leader calls out to us, rallying the troops. We fight our way to his side: ripping and tearing, stabbing and rending, what little skill we might have had is lost in the desperate combat, allowing our armour to soak up the strikes while we enter a berserker rage with our Chainswords and Lightning Claws. His name is...forgotten. All I know is that he will be our deliverance from evil, our shining light in the grim darkness of this hour. His armour is a glittering gun-metal grey with a gilded golden trim. Vast scrolls sealed to his armour by consecrated wax adorn his breastplate, and a tattered white shroud covers his waist and legs. His face is concealed by a menacing armoured implement of holy protection, while his eyes are burning bright with righteous fury. The Grey Knights of Titan fight with us, and we cannot lose!

"Purge the beast," he yells at the top of his lungs, traitors near him shrink back in awe and fear, daemonic entities scream as they brush past his consecrated holy armour: "the enemies of man cannot stand before us!"

A hammer blow to my armour causes me to falter in the storming charge, and I roll away as deftly as I can in this heavy suit. A creature I cannot well describe stands before me, a shifting mass of shadow and flesh, with hands and claws reaching out from the core. Each shadowy limb grasping a different weapon in its alternating flabby and emasculated fingers.

The creature lashes out with ten, no, twenty appendages. I hack and rend with my chainsword, assaulting the monster with a series of shuddering blows that rip its unholy arms off and...no blood. This thing does not bleed? Instead a disturbing pinkish-violet light emanates from the gashes left in its body, as they begin healing and replacing those tendrils lost. How do I kill something which does not bleed? I resolve to kill this thing before I die, and launch into a withering flurry of vicious chainsword slashes and hammer blows with my free gauntlet.

After ten solid minutes of attacking this abomination, I am no closer to my stated intention. Every blow I land, every gash I rip, the righteous fury I wreak upon the damned thing, it heals immediately and continues in its assault. My armour is taking hits, and I fear that one blow soon will be strong enough to penetrate the reinforced ceramite and skewer me on its foul implements of corrupted doom. As I dodge and weave, ever conscious of my chainsword and the creature it attacks, I realise I have not been paying attention to the battle for at least fifteen minutes.

As I let loose a segment of my concentration to pan the battlefield and appraise the situation, I notice a grey-white blur heading in my direction at impossible speed along with an accompanying howl that pains my ears and visibly hurts the daemon. Too long have I focused upon my saviour, for the abomination brings down a rusted, bloody warhammer onto my left pauldron, bringing me sprawling to the ground. Before the final blow is struck, a Grey Knight storms into view, rapidly fired shells from his wrist-mounted storm bolter ripping into the daemon, and slicing down with a Nemesis force weapon. The damage he wreaks cannot be healed by the unholy monster, and hints of flame erupt along the vast gashes in its body. Eventually the entire thing bursts into flame, and a foul scream bursts forth from its dying form.

"Facing a daemon of the Warp without prior preparedness is a foolhardy venture, Dark Angel." the Grey Knight scolded me, "Without my intervention it would surely have destroyed you."

I lie almost broken on the floor, a crack spiders through the heavy ceramite chest plate of my power armour. I must be a pitiful sight. I am unworthy to carry the mantle of the Dark Angels.

"However, your valour and relentless determination are to be commended, my brother. You do your chapter proud."

Praise from one such as he causes my chest to swell with pride. I am re-energised, and filled with renewed vigour for battle. Assurance that I do my chapter proud from a holy implement of the Emperor's wrath is more powerful than any chemical stimulant, and worth more than a thousand standard commendations or titles.

The Grey Knight offers his hand, I accept the help and he pulls me up. I pick up the chainsword that fell from my grasp during the fall, and face in the direction of our brothers chaotic skirmish and fervent slaughter. I am asked if I can still fight, a rhetorical question for one such as I. I simply nod, and break into a run with the Grey Knight closely following behind, we utter a fierce war cry in defiance of our enemies.

The next five hours are a blur of righteous fury.


End file.
